


Monstrous Maw

by cuddlesome



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: ALW-heavy with touches of Leroux, Deformity, Drabble Sequence, Eating Disorders, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Hand Feeding, Kissing, Macarons, Self-Esteem Issues, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 15:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlesome/pseuds/cuddlesome
Summary: Christine tries to get Erik more comfortable with eating around her by offering him macarons.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 58
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think Erik's eating habits (or lack thereof) in Leroux is an interesting topic so I'm writing a little multichap drabble thing about it. I imagine that the intention was to have him not eat or drink with Christine to drive home the "living dead man" motif/explain his thinness/keep the mask on. I feel like the ALW deformity lends itself to even more reasons why Erik might not be too fond of consuming things in front of her; the hemangioma in his lips would make it difficult and the the facial lesions might even cause pain when aggravated by chewing motions.
> 
> Am I overthinking this? Definitely. But I hope you enjoy anyway.

“Angel,” Christine calls, “would it be all right for us to take a break from lessons for something to eat?”

He relaxes his position in front of the organ at once and turns to her. “Of course. What would you like?”

“I meant the both of us,” she says, fingers twisting in her skirts. “I’ve never seen you partake in food or drink. It worries me. Forgive me for saying so, but you’re frighteningly thin.”

Frightening indeed.

He stands up from his chair, stretching to relieve the tension from his back, then joins her on the couch. Christine looks enchanted to have him so near. He tries and fails to let it go to his head. With a gesture more confident than he feels, he brushes his fingers down her cheek.

“Your concern is touching, but trust me when I say that the sound of your voice is the only sustenance I require,” he says, hoping that will be the end of the conversation.

He underestimates her persistence. 

“Even you can’t live on music alone.” She smiles, but worry still creases her fine forehead. “I won’t demand that you consume something as substantial as prawns and chicken, but I should like to share meals with you sometimes. In fact, I thought we could eat a little something together now.”

“What an idea,” he says, doubtful.

Christine produces an elegant box from the pocket of the coat she brought to beat back the chill beneath the opera house. She opens it to reveal six macarons snugly packaged inside, all soft pastel colors, no two the same.

“I thought we could start with these as a snack,” she says, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction. “Just so you can get used to it. After all, everyone loves sweets.”

The only sweet things Erik can recall consuming in years are dessert wines.

He tuts. “You should know better than to spend your hard-earned wages at the _boulangerie_.”

“They’re a gift from an admirer.” Any jealousy begotten by the first phrase wilts with the next: “I wanted to share them with you. After all, I would not have my success without my great teacher.”

The compliment catches him off-guard. He angles his face away so that the mask will disguise his pleased smile but continues to look at her out of the corner of his eye.

“That is a kind gesture, my dear.”

“Which one would you like?” Christine has so much hope in her beautiful voice.

He almost feels cruel for turning his nose up. 

“Very well, I shall pick for you.” She selects a cookie with a light pink shell and a darker filling.

It’s rose-flavored; he can tell from the smell as she holds it out to him.

He shakes his head. “No, Christine. I appreciate the thought, but…”

“But what?” She leans closer. “What is it?”

“The mask makes it… difficult. To eat. That’s why I don’t when I’m around you.” It’s not the only reason, but it’s the best to dissuade her at the moment.

“You can take it off,” she suggests.

She says it as though it is the simplest thing in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

“You want me to remove my mask?” Erik shifts to a defensive posture so she can’t reach for it herself. “Why? So you can gawk and flinch away from the beast once more?”

Instinctual hostility that he had learned after many years of abuse rears its ugly head. The curses he shouted at her before are ready and waiting on his tongue.

She shakes her head hard, making her curls bounce. “No, of course not. Do you really think so little of me?”

Her lips tremble despite her attempt to stop it by pressing them together. She makes a single delicate sniffle. It takes so little for him to drive her to tears. 

Guilt swamps him at once.

“I… no. No, Christine, you would never be so cruel, not to me, not to anyone.” He sits up, smoothing his coat. “I spoke out of misbegotten anger. Forgive me.”

“Of course I forgive you.” Christine scrubs at her eyes with her wrist, takes a steadying breath, and gives him a wobbly smile. “I only want you to take it off so you can enjoy my gift.”

He looks at Christine’s open expression, at the fingers still holding the macaron aloft. His resolve wavers.

He will keep the wig on. He should be afforded that shield if not the mask.

With trembling fingers, he lifts a hand to remove the offending item. He grits his teeth as he exposes the putrid side of his face, raw and irritated after so long beneath the mask. It’s something he doesn’t think he will ever become accustomed to. He sets the mask aside.

Christine leans forward, expectant. Her hair tumbles fetchingly over one of her shoulders. She looks upon him without the slightest bit of fear in her crystalline eyes. The opera sharpened her acting skills. Erik won’t allow himself to believe anything more. 

He reaches out a hand to take the macaron. She pulls her own hand out of reach.

Erik frowns. “Do you want me to eat it or don’t you?”

“You can relax.”

“Relax?”

“I…” And she uses her sweet voice to whisper something risqué: “I want to feed it to you.” 

Her cheeks pinken. He imagines his face is a much harsher red.

“That is hardly proper,” he whispers.

“You’re right,” she whispers back. “But everything about our relationship is far beyond the reaches of propriety, I think.”

Erik sighs, a puff of air between his malformed lips. He rolls his mismatched eyes heavenward.

“Fine.”

She holds out the macaron again.

What is the purpose of this exercise? Is it in an effort to make him more familiar, more human? 

Erik leans toward her and takes a small bite. The delicate pastry shell cracks and flakes between his teeth. The filling is as sweet as the flowery fragrance suggested. 

What a girlish little dessert. She should be sharing these with the dancers. Instead she chose to take the macarons here, bringing them directly to his monstrous maw...

He lifts his hand up to cover the lower half of his face as he chews. Best to block the sight of his malformed mouth and scarred cheek moving from Christine. The forever-unhealing wounds in his face ache with the movement of his jaws. Not to mention the distinct possibility of crumbs falling from between his fat, numb lips. He lacks the motor control or working nerves to stop foodstuff escaping on occasion. It’s mortifying enough when he is alone; it would kill him for Christine to see.


	3. Chapter 3

“Do you like it?” His dearest Christine asks.

He swallows and lowers his hand. “Yes. Thank you.”

He would say so regardless to spare her feelings, but he finds that he does not need to exaggerate. The macaron is the perfect texture and flavorful enough to make his long-abused stomach rumble in anticipation of more food, even if it is only a frivolous dessert.

Ever-concerned for his well-being, Christine notices. “Oh, are you hungry? We could have something more filling…”

“No, no. This will do.”

In truth, he does not know that he would be able to keep a large meal down. He spent years grazing on choice bits of food stolen from the kitchens above whenever the hunger of his weak mortal body annoyed him out of composing for too long.

He takes another tiny bite of the macaron and eats it much in the same way as the first.

“Your suitor has excellent taste.” He licks his lips and tries not to wince at the bloated sections beneath his tongue. 

Christine shakes the partly-eaten cookie at him. “Jealousy does not become you, Erik. Here. Have some more.”

He takes a bigger bite this time, more in the interest of getting it over with than anything else. Quite by accident, his lips brush her fingers. Christine lets out a near-imperceptible gasp. He jerks back.

He touched her! He dared to touch his beautiful Christine with his horrible lips!

His hand all but crushes them this time and he avoids her eyes. His fingers tremble.

“It’s all right,” she says, touching his knee. 

He still cannot look at her. 

The sound of his own chewing is so inharmonious. He despises it. 

Long after the masticated piece of macaron has disappeared down his gullet he keeps his hand in place. Were it not for the air whistling through his damaged nasal cavity he would appear to be a statue. No, no, a corpse.

Christine pries his bony fingers away from his mouth. Her hands are so small. He should put up more of an effort to resist her, but he doesn’t.

He curls his hand around hers. “Why must you unveil this picture of ugliness again and again?”

“I want you to trust me. I’m not afraid, or disgusted, or whatever else you fear me to be,” she says. “Just one more bite.”   


He exhales, leans forward, and opens his mouth again. She pops the last crumbly bit of cookie into his mouth. 

Then she takes a hold of his other hand, too. He stiffens and closes his mouth but does not start chewing. He contemplates swallowing the bit of macaron whole. Perhaps it would be best if he choked on it.


	4. Chapter 4

“It’s all right, Erik,” she says. “Believe me.”

He’s being childish, he knows that, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Slow as can be, he chews on the tiny morsel, all that is left of the macaron. Christine watches him with open curiosity.

He’d never hated himself quite enough to look in a reflective surface on the rare occasions he partook in meals, but he imagines that he treats her to a gruesome show in that moment. The mess of discolored and torn skin and his bulging lips are bad enough in stasis, let alone moving.

He looks away from her, trying to focus on something else. But his own damn chewing won’t let him forget. Eating engages all of the senses. It’s near-overwhelming, absolutely disgusting. He’d prefer to be the ghost he masquerades as. Needing no food or drink, capable of feeling naught. Except, of course, the ability to hear music. Yes, he could keep that sense. 

Despite how he tries to keep his mouth shut, some crumbs spill out, just as he feared. With a wince he recalls his mother chastising him for making messes every other time that he ate. 

Christine lets go of his hands, then brushes the crumbs off of his mouth and then off of his lapel. The touch to his too-soft mouth is so brief that he almost doesn’t register it. She seems to realize this, too, and goes back for another caress, a far more extended one. 

Erik gasps. He forces his mouth shut just as abruptly, wary of getting his hot, stinking breath on her little hand.

Christine rubs the pad of her thumb over his lower lip. Erik squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his hands in his lap. She starts at the smooth left corner and sweeps to the other side where it plumpens to a freakish degree. Then she moves to the slightly safer territory of his broken cupid’s bow. Only to ruin it by circling the whole of his mouth over again. Erik shudders.

Hell and damnation, why is she doing this to him?

He shouldn’t dare think that Christine likes touching him this way. No, it is simply morbid curiosity. But even that implies interest of some sort.

She withdraws her hand, but he doesn’t dare open his eyes for fear of seeing the expression on her face. Then he feels the press of another macaron to his mouth. 

He sighs. “Chri—”

She presses it more incessantly, slotting it between his lips. Without much choice to do anything else short of spitting out her offering, Erik bites down. 

Lemon. The citrusy flavor is just as delicious as the floral macaron. He can’t help but enjoy it, at least a little, despite all his discomforts. But even those have become less defined in his mind, pushed away by the idea of Christine’s interest in him even if it’s ill-founded.

Then, just as he swallows, he feels Christine’s feather-light touch skim up his neck. Her hand cups his jaw, mere inches from his deformity. And then—can it be?—a smaller, more uniform pair of lips press to the seam of his horrible mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! Hope you enjoy the wrap-up to this cute little fic. 👻💟

Kissing him… she’s kissing him… how can she bear it?

It’s a chaste kiss, little more than a prolonged press of lips. Still, it dazzles him. She pulls back after a few seconds.

Erik’s eyes flutter open. Christine’s face hovers mere inches away from his. She strokes his twisted cheek. He swallows. 

“My dear, my sweet,” he says, “you need not pretend to enjoy this for m—”

She leans forward to give his mouth a little peck, then another, silencing him.

She stays close, letting her lips brush his as she speaks. “So soft. They’re even more velvety than I imagined.”

His Christine imagined kissing him? He might swoon.

Even so, he insists, “They’re fat and gross and decidedly unmasculine.”

“That’s not how I see you. Or feel you, or…” She trails off, then asks suddenly, “May I have a taste of the macarons too?”

Erik’s brow wrinkles with confusion. He had almost forgotten about the desserts that prompted this whole ordeal.

“Of course, they’re yours to—”

She kisses him again, and this time he feels the tip of her tongue slip against his lips. Erik stays frozen. The slick organ prods more incessantly. Oh. He opens his mouth. 

That kiss lasts longer. It’s warm and wet and Erik is moved to participate in it. He reaches up, tangles his fingers in her curls, and angles his head so that they can deepen the kiss. Christine pets the right side of his face, then reaches higher to caress the spot where his wig covers the wide tear on his scalp. She’s so tender, so gentle, it doesn’t hurt a bit. 

When they finally separate, they both pant hotly against each other. 

“Delicious,” Christine pronounces.

“Where,” he asks, “did you learn to do a thing like that?”

“When one lives in an opera house, one sees things, hears things,” she says, smoothing her skirt and licking her lips. “Have I helped you feel better about yourself, Erik? Can you see now that you don’t need to hide yourself from me or deprive your body of food?”

In truth, the feelings of self-loathing have ebbed somewhat, but they still remain there in the back of his mind.

“Your affections mean more to me than I can express,” he says, touching his fingertips to his lower lip. “But it will take more than macarons and kisses to undo what I’ve believed about myself since I was a child.”

She picks up the other half of the lemon macaron and takes a bite. “Then it’s fortunate that I have plenty of love to give you, too.” 


End file.
